


En Lambeaux

by lesmisloony



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 19:01:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2320052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesmisloony/pseuds/lesmisloony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A strange boy and his family stop off at the Sergeant of Waterloo, and both the father and the son take an interest in the serving girl. No points for recognizing those two. Vaguely AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	En Lambeaux

When the family first arrived at the inn, Cosette was standing by the fireplace, prodding at the dying flames with the long iron poker. Opening the door brought in a burst of wind, which swirled through the broad room and, though it gave the ragged little serving-girl a chill, ruffled the ashes on the hearth, bringing the fading embers back to flickering life.

The boy entered first, his mother just behind with an ivory hand gripping his shoulder. It seemed at the time a protective move, but later Cosette would realize that without the boy's support she would have fallen. The mother was breathtakingly elegant, with white skin and ebony hair falling in perfect curls around her delicate face; the son was nearly identical but for a sharpness that did not exist in his mother's features. His dark hair was pulled back severely, secured with a narrow scarlet ribbon. Both had proud, black eyes that flashed haughtily from above their high cheekbones, taking in the inn and its inhabitants with one searing glance. The boy could not have been more than ten years old.

Once the mother was seated at the nearest table, her posture razor-straight, the boy's piercing gaze rested on Cosette, who had shrunk into the shadows near the hearth in hopes of watching these majestic newcomers undetected. His black eyes fell upon her at once, and he strode across the room with long, purposeful steps until he stood before her.

"Hello," he said. The tone was not inquisitive or even really friendly; in fact, he sounded more like a businessman keeping an appointment with a colleague.

Afraid to respond, Cosette lowered her eyes. The boy was dressed in a fine little black suit and white chemise. A carefully-tied red cravat and the matching hair ribbon were the only spots of color in his wardrobe, the silk an echo of the color of his lips.

"Not much of a babbler, hm?" he said knowledgeably, dark little brows lifted. His voice was soft and sharp all at once; Cosette wanted him to keep speaking as much as she wanted him to let her retreat to the safety of the crossbar under the table.

Cosette was spared from answering when the sound of a large crash came from outside, followed by an equally loud but good-natured curse. Most of the inn's patrons craned their neck toward the door as the last member of the little family staggered into the tavern.

Nothing could have made him any more different from his wife and son. They had long, dark hair; he was bald. They had deep black eyes; his were rheumy. They were beautiful; he was ugly. The father reeled toward the table where his carefully-composed wife sat and plopped into a chair, tilting it back on two legs and proclaiming in a loud voice that he was ready for a good meal and a room.

Cosette, meanwhile, was staring at this newcomer, mouth agape. Her eyes went back to the boy, whose jaw was clenched and nostrils flared in clear annoyance.

"My father," he muttered, slowly regaining his poise.

"Has he been here before?"

The words came out as a squeak, for the little girl had been taught not to address customers (and this was a particularly intimidating one), but something about the gentleman who had entered so unceremoniously was familiar to her.

The boy's eyes flashed; for a moment Cosette was afraid she had angered him, but when he responded she sensed that he was actually amused, or perhaps even glad that the little girl had spoken. "We've no way of knowing. He studies and keeps a job in Paris and is gone most of the time. He spent years there, only coming home to Toulouse for a week here and a week there. But if you recognize him, it's likely you've seen him before. Someone like that is not easily forgotten."

Cosette nodded meekly.

"We're on our way to Paris now. My mother wants to be closer to him now that she's… not well. I don't know what it is, but she cares for the old fool." The boy stepped back, murmured "I should go to her," and retreated.

Once he was gone, Cosette went back to poking at the fire, occasionally glancing over her shoulder and watching the strange guests. At length, when the Thénardiers came into the room, she noticed that the boy refused to answer anything Éponine or little Azelma whispered to him.

 

Cosette had been charged with preparing the bridal suite for the strange family and with dragging the cot into the room for the boy. The cot was small, only a little larger than her own nook under the stairs, and Cosette imagined the lanky boy trying to sleep there that night, his feet hanging over one edge and the top of his head over the other. She did not smile at the image, though a practiced observer might have noticed that her large eyes crinkled slightly and a touch of the sadness was lifted from her features. The mattress was stuffed with straw; Cosette wondered if the elegant boy had ever slept on anything but goose down.

She had just finished tucking a quilt over the cot—a quilt that she had originally patched together for Azelma's bed last winter—when she heard the familiar father's voice approaching in the hallway.

"I saw you talking to the serving-girl, my boy. Did you catch her name?"

The boy's voice answered. "Should I have?"

They were talking about her! Cosette did not excuse herself and hurry out of the room, ducking instead into the corner between the wall and the wardrobe, holding her breath and willing herself to become invisible. What would the boy say about her when he thought she could not hear?

"She reminded me of someone," said the father.

Cosette furrowed her little brow—so the stranger had recognized her as well.

"You're always fraternizing with the wretched ones, aren't you, lad?" he continued. "If you wanted to impress a little lady, I daresay the innkeeper himself would've dropped to the floor in death had you deigned to speak with one of his little strumpets. Young love certainly starts sooner than it did when I was free for it. I remember a girl from Paris—no, no, my love, it was before I met you, of course—with yellow hair and roundest, saddest eyes you'd ever seen. Tragic look about her, too, just like—" And then he broke off. There was a brief silence before the familiar stranger's voice continued in a completely different tone. "But never mind all that. We're talking about you now, my lad, aren't we? You and your serving-girl. Oh, and if you speak to her again," he said, his voice clearly shaking, "ask her what her mother was called."

"No." He did not raise his voice or snap at his father, again affecting that business-like tone he had used when confronting Cosette at the hearth. "Have you been here before?" asked the boy.

"To Montfermeil or to this room?"

There was a long pause in which Cosette could image the boy staring coolly at his father. Concealed between the wardrobe and the wall she breathed in and out silently, a trick she had perfected over the years of dodging Madame's ill temper.

"No, I haven't. Don't know if I'll come back, either, what with the disgusting amount that old thief charged for this cell!"

"Perhaps you shouldn't have told him about your income, Félix." This was a low female voice that Cosette assumed was the mother's. "That was hardly a sensible thing to do."

"Liquor isn't always sensible," remarked the boy, his voice dangerous. He then added, "I'm going out."

The door opened and closed.

After a moment's pause, the familiar voice murmured, "That boy doesn't care much for his old father, does he? Doesn't look much like him either."

"Félix, of course he's your son! I looked nothing like my own father." The mother's voice was low and comforting. "It's nothing more than chance. I suppose if we had another it would resemble you entirely," continued the mother, but the last syllable caught in her throat and turned into a violent deep cough.

"Lie down, darling," said the father, "and I'll run down to the kitchen for some water. Lord knows, with what he charged me, he can afford…" The bald father hastened from the room, grumbling as he went, leaving his wife in the middle of her coughing fit.

Cosette peeped around the corner of the wardrobe and saw that the graceful mother was hunched over the basin, her back to the girl, completely caught up in her own pain. The serving-girl hurried away before she was discovered eavesdropping, her heartbeat echoing the gentle clicks of her wooden shoes against the floorboards, the sound of the mother's wrenching coughs following her as she left.

 

The boy was crouched in the yard, his hands cupped around something that Éponine and Azelma were desperately trying to see. The older girl was grinning and chattering about some game she wanted to play while the younger dared to pry at the boy's hands; neither of them was making any progress. The boy had set his pretty little lips in a tight line and was staring straight ahead as though the girls were invisible, but when he saw Cosette he got to his feet, shaking Azelma off, and called after her.

"Serving-girl!"

Behind him, Éponine's sharp eyes traveled from the boy's back to Cosette, narrowing as she slowly realized that the boy was leaving her company for the ragged servant's. Seizing Azelma's wrist, she pulled her sister to her feet and grumbled, "I don't know what's so special about that stupid old Lark anyways. She's ugly and she doesn't know her letters, and she messes up all the time." With that, she dragged the smaller girl back to the tavern, shooting the other two children a final contemptuous look before slamming the door.

The boy continued to ignore her, holding his cupped hands before Cosette. "Look at this," he said quietly, opening them.

A tiny bird sat on his palm, trembling, covered with greyish fuzz, large, pink lids sealed over its eyes. Cosette could not help but gasp. She looked up at the boy with enchantment shining in her eyes; his lips were curled into a little smile, and his own eyes were on Cosette. "You can pet it," he said, holding the baby bird closer.

Cosette raised a reddened hand, shaking as violently as the bird, and brushed one careful finger over the top of its head. The bird opened its beak and craned its neck upward, bobbing up and down in the boy's hands. "Where's its mother?" breathed Cosette.

"Where's yours?"

The little girl looked up from the bird, but looked away before she could meet the strange boy's eyes. "I don't know. I think she's dead. Or I haven't got one."

There was a slight rustle behind them. Cosette turned in time to see that the boy's own mother had emerged from the inn and was bent double, one hand clasping the doorframe, the other thrown across her stomach, vomiting. The little girl, morbidly fascinated by the despoilment of such a noble figure, found that she could not tear her eyes away from the ghastly scene. Weakened, the woman could not even move to pull her lovely black hair out of the mess, and remained slumped against the wall, shuddering, even after she was finished.

The baby bird squealed piercingly; Cosette looked back at the boy in time to see his emotionless expression as he surveyed his bloodstained hands and the crumpled corpse of the tiny animal. Without looking up at Cosette, he muttered, "It was an accident. You can bury it if you want," and dropped the bird on the ground, breaking into a run as he left the scene.

 

Cosette pressed her fingers into her father's hand, clutching the basket tightly against her stomach. She stared at the dark wood of the closed door. This was what she had been taught about in all the time at the convent. This was God's will. And now that she was out in the world, why did she doubt His protection? Behind this old door was a family in need, a poor man and his injured ward, and she was bringing them food. Why was she afraid? Her father visited poor families often.

"I can take you home now, my dear, and come back later myself," her father whispered. His husky voice brought her whirling thoughts back to reality with a jolt. "You can come along next time."

But Cosette shook her head, a stray curl bouncing against her forehead. "I want to help."

Her father gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then raised his fist to the door, rapping lightly with his thick knuckles while Cosette shoved the irritating curl back under her bonnet.

The door opened almost at once, and a thin man with an uncovered head bowed before them, stringy hair hanging by his cheeks, and threw an arm out dramatically to usher them into the room. "My benefactors," he murmured, his voice jarringly nasal.

The man's strange features were almost frightening; Cosette had to force herself not to stare, settling for glancing at him repeatedly from the corner of her eye as she and her father passed him and went into the room. The man's skin was so pale it bordered on translucent, with eyes such a light shade of blue that they matched the flesh of his drawn cheeks. Haggard and dirty though he appeared, the man was certainly much younger than her father. Cosette would have guessed that he was not yet forty years old.

As they entered the room, her father rested a heavy, protective hand on her shoulder. They were in a small space, brownish walls marked with long streaks of dark water stains, large piles of dirty rags huddled in the corners. Her father's grip tightened, his large hand enveloping her entire shoulder as one of the piles of cloth twitched, alive. "They are friends," the thin man said reassuringly, "staying with me for the evening. I'm afraid they're a little drunk." Then Cosette saw that the rags were in fact shabbily-dressed men, some covered with greying blankets, all huddled against the wall in sleep.

"And this is my poor ward," said their host, gesturing to a smaller bundle at the back of the room. This was another of the tattered grey blankets, but emerging from the top was the handsome face of a young man. His features were noble, white, and elegant; only the grey shadows beneath his eyes and his tousled ebony hair, pulled back messily with large pieces dangling on either side of his sallow face, revealed that he was unfortunate, poor, struggling. As she watched him, he raised his dark eyes from the floor and saw Cosette. He seemed to start, then squinted a little, staring at her with a probing look that made her so uncomfortable that she had to look away. "So, you see, my good sir, that I am reduced to begging," the thin man was saying from behind them. "Certainly, there is… something… that a gentleman like you might do for us."

"Of course," her father said, nudging her. "We've brought enough food for a week. Where shall she leave it?" There was no table in the room.

"Many thanks, mademoiselle, monsieur. My ward will take the basket from you."

The striking young man rose smoothly to his feet, the rags still hanging from his shoulders as a kind of shawl.

Then everything in the room changed. The door slammed; the bundles shifted; blacked faces appeared from beneath the cloth, rough features twisted into grimaces. Cosette felt her father's strong arms wrap protectively around her, pulling her against his broad chest as he began to move backwards while their attackers advanced. "Scoundrels," he barked, "you would harm this girl as well?"

"None shall be harmed," the thin man said, "if you cooperate with us."

The men moved in and her father's grip tightened. Cosette suddenly felt dizzy; she wondered what would happen if she fainted. Would her father have to find a way to fight off all these men and carry her out, or would this miraculously stop? She realized she was still clutching the basket of food. Good, she thought, ungrateful wretches shan't have any of it! She fixed her face into a look that she hoped conveyed defiance as she glared at the men from behind her father's arms. The biggest of them, a mountain of a man with features of crudely-chiseled granite, chuckled and lurched toward her.

"Cosette!" her father gasped, pulling her even tighter to his chest and leaping backwards so that the attacker only brushed against her, losing his balance and staggering.

"Stop!"

The voice was clear and piercing; it was the ward. The moment this word was pronounced the other men obediently stilled, the attack postponed. In the bizarre silence that followed, the ward moved gracefully toward them, closing the gap between himself and Cosette, while the other men stood back and watched with expressions of bewilderment that must have mirrored her father's. She felt her father's grip change—it would have tightened if it had been possible.

When the ward was standing directly in front of her, he bent a little and gazed into her eyes. "We've got the wrong ones," he said, the words obviously intended for the vagabonds. "These two will have to go." And with that he offered his elbow to Cosette, despite the large arms that were still wrapped around her and the basket that she still hadn't released. She didn't take it, of course, so the ward, suddenly a gentleman, simply nodded and crossed the room, opening the door for them and bowing, setting them free.

Cosette felt her father's suspicion and confusion as he let go of her at last and, putting his large hands on her shoulders, steered her out of the room. When they reached the stairs he had still said nothing, only acknowledging that they were safe by releasing her. Neither of them had any idea what had just happened.

"Father—wait here," Cosette said suddenly, and she ran back down the length of the hallway to the door that was still open and the strange young man who still watching her. "Thank you." She thrust the basket of food into his hands.

He took it, letting his fingertips brush over hers and murmuring, "I kept my promise. You were gone."

Cosette felt her father's protective grip on her arm—he dragged her away before she could ask the stranger what he meant.

 

When Cosette awoke in the dark to a tumult on the upper floor of the inn, she immediately sat up in case her mistress called for her. She stared into the blackness and listened to the running footsteps above, her mind concocting wild scenarios to explain the ruckus, each more frightening than the last. Just when she had finished a particularly gruesome story involving a ghost manifesting itself in the Thénardiers' bedroom, a white figure appeared before her in the darkness. Cosette gasped and drew her thin blanket up to her nose, peeking at the specter over the top. It moved closer, and the child relaxed upon recognizing the strange boy clad only in a long, white nightshirt.

"Did I frighten you?" he whispered.

Cosette shook her head.

"Liar. Here, move over a bit."

Cosette obediently scooted to the foot of her little pallet, and the boy sat next to her. His hair, released from its tight ribbon, hung about his head in a ring of tousled black curls, the longest grazing his sharp shoulders. Clad in just the white cotton, his ivory-colored skin took on a vaguely peach hue, but Cosette could only see it once he was seated at her side, his long legs crossed beneath the nightshirt and his slender hand resting so near her own.

"My mother died," he said levelly.

"What?" squeaked the serving-girl.

He nodded. "She's been sick for a long time. Félix is still going to Paris, but he's burying her in this town. He wouldn't even arrange to have her sent back to Toulouse, or to bring her with him." The boy leaned closer to Cosette. "Want to know a secret?" he asked, but continued without waiting for an answer. "I hate him. As soon as we get to Paris, I'm going to run away from him. And someday, when I get old enough… I'm going to kill him."

Cosette said nothing, watching the boy with her large, shadowed eyes.

"What's your name?" he said suddenly. "Those pampered brats called you 'Lark,' but that's a stupid nickname."

"Cosette," she said softly.

His lips curled into that dark smile again. "Cosette," he repeated.

"What's yours?"

The boy shook his head. "I'm not keeping the silly name Félix gave me. The moment we reach Paris, I'm going to find a new name."

"Oh," said Cosette.

"That woman hurts you, doesn't she?" the boy asked suddenly.

Cosette did not respond.

"I'll kill her too, if you want. And those two brats. D'you want me to kill her? I'll do it, as soon as I'm big enough."

Still Cosette said nothing, staring at him in the darkness. His pretty white face was contorted into a twisted mess of hatred, black eyes flashing dangerously.

He turned to her. "I'll come back for you. Then, when I've killed them all, we could run this place ourselves, couldn't we?"

"I don't want to stay here," whispered the serving-girl.

"Then we won't."

The two sat in silence for a long time. Cosette kept glancing at the boy from the corner of her eye, but his gaze remained fixed on her, so she looked away just as quickly, until at last he said, "Are you afraid of me, Cosette?"

She slowly shook her head.

"Marcel! Where the hell are you, boy? We're leaving!"

It was the voice of the familiar stranger, his father.

"I have to go," said the boy, placing a slender hand on Cosette's bony shoulder. She turned to look at him at last, and the boy leaned forward and kissed her, his mess of curly hair swinging forward and brushing her cheeks. "I'll come back for you, Cosette," he said, and disappeared into the darkness.

Cosette did not move as she heard his soft footsteps climbing the stairs above her head. She stared straight ahead into the darkness and, at length, lay back down and went to sleep. Only then did a little smile slither across her cracked lips.


End file.
